Maxine (14 page)

Maxine receives an email from Mademoiselle Emmanuelle Duchamp in response to her query about the contest. They welcome submissions from Canada—Mlle. Duchamp herself once in her
jeunesse
visited Montréal and found it
de toute beauté
. She, Mlle. E. Duchamp, will personally see to it that Maxine's application is treated with all due etcetera. To us, Maxine thinks reverently, is born Emmanuelle. She pictures a frail spinster poring nobly over lamplit pages late at night, in a small, high-ceilinged, nineteenth-century apartment above a florist's, pausing to appreciate a thoughtful simile.

A knock and he shuffles in without speaking.

Ta-daaa! she says. The bristol board is tacked up on the wall near the computer. In big letters at the top it says

PARIS CONTEST
DEADLINE: 20 JUNE 2003

Underneath, there's a huge thermometer with gradations like the ones that mark the progress of a fundraising appeal. The goal, at the top, is 65,000 words. The red line stops at 28,762 words, and today's date is written in marker. Kyle gives a small smile of the sort that suggests he doesn't want to let on how pleased he is.

Can I write in the amounts sometimes?

All the time.

Cool.

I'm so glad you're here—there's some chocolate chip cookies I really need you to get rid of.

9

february 2003

m
ainlanders, says Gail. She's flinging bread angrily. Jesus God.

What?

If I hear one more mainlander whining about how no one will be their friend, I'm going to smack 'em.

One duck detaches itself from the mass at the edge of the pond and rushes Gail's foot. She tosses the last crust at it and turns away.

Now Gail, you know that's not good for them.

I don't give a shit what's good for them, I'm sick of hearing it.

The bread, Gail. It's not good for the ducks. You can buy duck seed at Marie's.

I made that bread, it's whole grain. Maxine. I personally have participated in three conversations in the last two days. Different people. In which I heard all about how Newfoundlanders have this fabulous reputation as warm and friendly people, and they are, if you need directions or a hand with your trailer or something—

But it's all a sham?

Exactly. They ask us over—

—and we don't reciprocate.

The women here are cold and cliquey.

Or maybe we're old and creaky, Maxine adds helpfully, and we don't hear very well either.

You've had it too?

Barb.

They've turned their backs on the duck pond now and they pass the Peter Pan statue that Maxine used to climb on, the one with the rabbits and fairies in the base worn soft from being stroked and climbed on by thousands of children. Gail draws her neck down into her collar against the wind and they start up the lower road, past the red horse trough.

Has it occurred to them that we might be busy? You know, have lives, not lie around woe-is-me-ing?
And
—Gail's revving up—then they start in on the
weather.
Where did they think they were going, the freakin' Bahamas?

Maxine understands she isn't really required to say anything. She strolls along beside Gail, her eyes following the fence by the river, criss-crosses of wood with the bark still attached. She appreciates the fences in this park, their rustic look, the sense that they are at the ready, tidy and camouflaged but quietly marking the boundaries all the same, prepared to swing into action in the event of an unspecified crisis involving demarcation. Whatever is actually bothering Gail will come out eventually. It's best to let her work her own way around to it.

Don't even get me started.

All right, Gay. They're probably just lonely.

Maxine shoves her hands down into the deep pockets of her black jacket, thinking that whoever came up with fleece linings for pockets deserves some kind of medal. This is the best park for a walk in the winter because the roadways are always ploughed, so you're not floundering around in thigh-deep drifts.

They're not
just
lonely: they're whiners. No wonder they don't have any friends.

Sometimes I think if Barb had more people to hang out with— You keep your distance, Max. If you start letting her drop in for the odd cup of tea you'll have to move and change your phone number. She'll suck you into that black vortex of nuttiness and you'll never be able to crawl out.

Maxine dips her head down low and sticks both arms out at shoulder level, palms up. Kyle deposits the warm fur on her hand. It sniffs. Maxine turns her head slightly to the left and sees the golden ball scooting towards her face. She ducks and giggles as teeny claws poke through her sweater, scritch across the back of her neck, and along the other arm. Kyle drops a bit of lettuce into her palm.

Nice work, Edmund! He retrieves the hamster carefully.

He's fantastic, Ky. Can I stroke his fur? Hi Edmund. Hi Edmund you little furry gold nugget. He's really soft and beautiful. How long do you have him for?

Cody gets back next week so I can have him till then.

Fabulous. Look I have to take off now, I'll see you tomorrow, buddy.

Maxine leaves Kyle to put the hamster away and tiptoes along the hall so as not to wake Dave, who's having a nap, Kyle said. On the kitchen table, where she left it, is Maxine's mini-backpack, except that it is unzippered now and Dave's hand is in it. Her keys and wallet are on the table. Dave doesn't move for a second and then he picks up the keys and wallet and puts them back in the bag. He fastens the zipper and slides the bag across the table in silence. Maxine picks it up and backs over to the front porch, never taking her eyes off Dave, who shows no expression but bats the fingers of one hand fast against his thigh. With one foot, Maxine feels behind for her shoes, draws them in front of her and slips them on. Dave looks as if he is about to say something, but he doesn't.

See you, Ky, Maxine yells suddenly. Dave jumps, and then the screen door is slamming behind her.

Frédérique picked up her mail from the department office and bought a coffee at the Kiosk. She read a memo in the elevator. From halfway down the hall she could see that her office door was ajar. She could see this from the angle of the strip of light on the floor in front of the door. She had left the door closed but not locked, as she always did. She looked around for the cleaner's cart and whispered to her boy galaxy, “Who's that, Peg?” Frédérique approached the door quietly and then walked quickly in. Charles Blackmore, Dr. Quantum Mechanics, three doors down, had a hand in the top drawer of her desk.

“Oh! Frédérique! What a surprise!”

“Indeed,” said Frédérique, who kept walking toward her desk.

Her voice was like iron.

“I can't find my internal phone book. I know it's silly but I have to call—”

“It's on-line, you idiot,” Frédérique snarled. She reached over and slammed the drawer shut.

“Sorry, Frédérique, of course it is, I—”

She sat and swung her chair so her back was to him. She took a sip of coffee and started typing something into the computer.

Chuck Blackmore was a nitwit. He was the least of her concerns.

No wind. Outside Maxine's kitchen window the branches of trees look frail against dirty grey cloud cover. The branches of these maples don't stick straight out, the way they can on a pine: they reach thinly upward, dozens of slim branches like hairs, as if God had turned on a hair dryer at the base of each tree and pointed it upward.

What Gail loves about aerobics. There's a discussion that could last a while. The Lycra's definitely part of it. The sweat. She loves the look of that sheen like baby oil all over her face and arms and neck and everyone else's. It's pretty sexy.

It's hot, Max, she says. Think about it. There's a reason sex is associated with heat. Cold is not sexy. With an aerobics class you can evoke sultriness in February.

But what had Gail steaming up her car windows on the way back from the park the other day, what had turned her temporarily against the world, was hiring. Specifically the fact that the gym has hired a new fitness person to take over several of the classes taught by long-time freelancers such as Gail. Part of Gail knows that it makes administrative sense to have one person taking care of a lot of things rather than a checklist of part-timers flitting hither and yon. The other part's pressing too hard on the accelerator. Maxine notices her own foot pushing down on what would be the brake if she were in the driver's seat.

Little cow, says Gail. She looks, oh, maybe senior elementary.

Is there any chance she won't want to teach your class, or won't be able to?

No. I mean, just because I've been teaching that course for ten YEARS, just because I have seen the gear come and go, the strap-on weights, balls, the Reebok pump, you name it, while she was still in her high chair. Drooling applesauce. Also she looks like that dentist, you know, the malnourished sour-looking one Ted has the hots for.

Bummer.

Yup.

It's true that there are other classes, other gyms, but Gail says she doesn't want to have to go looking for other gyms. She wants
her
class—there's a core of regulars who come year in and year out—in
her
slot.

Maxine has been a few times. She's watched Gail disappear into the room off the gym and emerge hauling a trolley with the electronic equipment, watched her pick up the headset. Some instructors refuse to wear the headset, but you could tell from the way Gail adjusted it and, when it was on properly, straightened with a little bounce and smile, that Gail considered it an essential part of the equipment, a mark of distinction.

Although Gail claims she only does it so she can eat more, it's just a bit of fun on the side, not her career, not her life, it's like being into birdwatching or whatever—in spite of all that you can tell she's in her element. She seems actually to enjoy the sessions, especially when the clientele starts to flag during the abs workout, some of them flopping and lying flat in defeat, meanwhile Gail's doing the precision up and downs like she's got a built-in hydraulic system, bellowing
Three more—two more—five more! Don't die on me, you wimps!!

Maxine hears a seagull and before she opens her eyes she knows she has a moral obligation to report to Barb that her husband is a purse-forager. This knowledge covers her like a smelly blanket she can't push off. Her eyelids look yellow inside: it's morning. Maxine refuses to open them. She might still go back to sleep and wake up, later, with everything changed. It might be dark. Dave might never have stuck his stupid paw in her daypack. Or she may feel on her second waking a sense of detachment, a lack of personal involvement. She could think, Ah, it was nothing, or, Let them work it out.

Maxine rolls onto her back, distributes her weight evenly, breathes down into her abdomen. It's the kind of thing you need to know about your husband, if you don't already. Maybe Dave is a kleptomaniac. Maybe there is something else the matter with him, something that could affect Kyle. If Barb already knows, then Maxine won't be revealing anything new and awful, and if she doesn't, well, Maxine's loyalty lies with Kyle, and by extension with Barb, over Dave. On the other hand, the thought of initiating any conversation with Barb, let alone this particular one, whisks into Maxine's mind images of a train pulling out of a station, a train with Maxine's smiling face in the window, a hand waving beside the face: bye-bye! It's true there are no trains, but she could get a bus somewhere. Maybe she could borrow Karen and Theresa's place around the bay for a week and by the time she came back she'd have forgotten all about it.

Kyle in his black down jacket clomps down the steps, one arm up to protect his face from blowing snow, and inserts himself sideways into the narrow space between the snowbank and the side of the car. He opens the door as far as it will go, which is not very, and shoves his backpack into that opening, shove, shove, shove until it disappears. He wriggles in. Now Dave, in his long coat and overshoes, runs down the stairs, head lowered, and scrunches himself into the driver's seat. Inside, Dave pulls off his toque and fluffs up his hair, one hand on either side of his head, in go the fingers, one rapid flick backwards, and then the car starts.

They haven't even turned the corner when Maxine is pulling on an old green jacket and sprinting across the road. Prickly snowflakes drive sideways into her eyeballs. She takes the steps three at a time and huddles under the overhang at Barb's front door.

It could of course be none of her business. Who is she to be telling Barb what her husband is like, as if she didn't already know? Who has known Dave the longest? It's possible—very unlikely but possible—that Dave had a legitimate and benevolent reason for rootling through her bag. And if he did, he'd have realized it would be impossible to explain, which would be why he hadn't even tried. And it wasn't money. He hadn't taken money; he'd left her wallet out on the table while he searched for something else. What if Barb didn't believe her? What if she took offence and told Kyle he wasn't to come over anymore, told him Maxine had passed on evil lies about his father? The door opens.

Maxine! Come in, is everything...

Yes, Barb, there's no problem, I just wanted.

They face each other in the dark-panelled porch. Dave's sneakers are on the floor near Maxine's feet, next to Kyle's. Maxine takes a breath.

It's the swimming, she says. What time is swimming today?

It's at quarter to four, same as usual, but if you're not available—

No, no, it's fine, I couldn't remember and I'm on my way to the bakery, so—Maxine laughs in a manner that strives for lightheartedness but achieves only hysteria. I'm forgetting everything these days!